The Dear Little Shamrock

There`s a dear little plant that grows in our Isle,
`Twas Saint Patrick himself sure that set it;
And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile,
And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It shines through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland,
And he call`d it the dear little shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little shamrock, the sweet little shamrock,
the dear little, sweet little shamrock of Ireland.

That dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin;
Whose smile can bewitch and whose eyes can command,
In each climate they ever appear in.
For they shine through the bog, through the brake and the mireland
Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little shamrock, the sweet little shamrock,
the dear little, sweet little shamrock of Ireland.

That daer little plant that springs from our soil,
When its three little leaves are extended,
Do notes from the stalk we together should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended.
And still through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland,
From one root should branch like the shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little shamrock, the sweet little shamrock,
the dear little, sweet little shamrock of Ireland.